Living Forward
by Midnight Caller
Summary: Jack POV of his relationship with the two significant women in his life (J/S)
1. Default Chapter

Living Forward

By Midnight Caller

Disclaimer:  Oh, how I wish I owned these characters, though I'm sure if I did, they wouldn't have become such lovely, flawed, beautiful people.  Instead, Hank owns them, and me, incidentally, as it should be.    

Rated: PG-13

Spoilers: Up through Fallout 2

Summary: Although this is a Jack POV, it a J/S-oriented story, so if that's not your thing, you might want to turn back now.  

A/N:  Thank you to Obsidian – your kind words of encouragement took my breath away.

This is for M – this story wouldn't exist without you.  Thank you.  For everything.  

And finally, thank you to Maple Street – I'm off to print up some "My Forum Can Beat Up You Forum" bumper stickers.  

Chapter 1/7

*****

Life can only be understood backwards.  But it must be lived forwards.   – Soren Kierkegaard

*****

_"So, Jack what do you think?  Do you get a second chance?"_

_"You gonna give me one?"_

If you had a second chance to fix the biggest mistake you'd ever made in your life, would you take it?  Maybe, if you thought you had made a mistake.  Because that's what people tell you.  That's what the rulebooks say.  That's what your conscience says whenever you gaze over at the pictures of your kids sitting on your desk, realizing that they can't, won't, shouldn't understand why you did what you did, because the truth is, only you know why.  

But what if there are no mistakes, there is no black and white, no right or wrong, just feelings that result from certain decisions?  What if life were not a set of choices or paths, but merely a random series of events that is in constant motion?  Mistakes are mistakes because someone decides that's what they are, whether it's a judge in a courtroom or an unfaithful spouse in a bedroom.  

And that's what I am, aren't I?  An unfaithful spouse.  A man who betrayed a trust, who did one of the most selfish things one can do in a marriage, and then went another step beyond that by allowing the "mistake" to let me feel happy for the first time in years.  But while I felt contentment, others felt grief and sadness and anger.  I guess that's what makes it a mistake.  But it brought me the first sense of real happiness since my children were born.  

_Children.  _

Yes, my wife and I have children together – two beautiful daughters.  I've never loved anything as much as I love them, not even my wife.  You must think I'm a horrible human being to say something like that, but it's a different kind of love.  Those kids loved me from the moment they came into the world.  They needed me just as much as I needed them.  They may have their feelings for me filtered through my wife at this point -- who knows what she tells them -- but in their hearts, I know they love me.  

It's a wonderful feeling, knowing there are people in the world who will love you no matter what you do, no matter what happens in the world to change your insides and outsides – they just love you, without question.  My wife is not one of those people, at least where I'm involved.  Not that I can really blame her.  I break the rules all the time because they don't allow me to do my job the way I see fit, but you're not supposed to break promises.  Vows are not made to be broken.  

I admit I almost fell in love with her the day we met.  Maria - that's my wife - was working at a restaurant in Brooklyn, and I used to go there to grab a bite to eat, or to have a beer.  I remember when I saw her, there was just something about her that struck me somewhere inside, something you can really only experience for yourself because it's far too complicated a sensation to try and explain with words.  

She's funny, you know.  Most people don't really realize that.  It's one of the reasons I think I fell in love with her; she made me laugh.  She was trying to pay for law school on a waitress's salary while working part time as an attorney's assistant, and she waited on me one night.  I gave her quite a tip; that got her to smile.  I came back every day for two weeks before I finally got her to share a meal with me.  I still remember what she ate – corned beef on sourdough, hold the onion and double the Thousand Island.  It's still one of her favorites.  

We were married three and a half years later, on June 7th, 1992.  Three years later, Hanna was born, and then we were blessed with Kate two years after that.  Our family was complete.        

I don't know the moment it started to go bad.  That's not really one of those things you automatically log away in your memory as a permanent keepsake.  It's not like one morning you wake up and suddenly realize you don't love your wife; you wake up one day and realize the feelings have been slowly slipping away and you've only now realized it because they're almost completely gone.  

It's pretty terrifying when that happens, actually, especially when you discover that it's mutual.  You tell yourself that if it were only one-sided, surely one of us would have noticed, would have tried to stop it, attempted to patch the hole before it became a gaping, irreparable chasm.  But that's not how it happens.  Something gets sucked out of your relationship and it doesn't even have the decency to name itself so you know how to fix it, or where to go to get more of it for replenishment.  

But then love doesn't really work that way, does it?  Love sort of decides on it's own how it's going to flow through your heart and influence the rest of you as its pumped throughout your body.  It's notorious for disregarding rationalism and logic, far too ethereal to be caught up in the trappings of judicious thought.  

Then one day you wake up and ... it's just ... gone.  It isn't long before you find yourself yearning for the feelings that it used to bring, as impetuous and unpredictable as they were.  In fact, sometimes the more impetuous and unpredictable the better.  You just want to assure yourself that you haven't died somewhere inside, along with the feelings you used to have.  You need to make sure you're even still capable of loving someone.  I guess it gets complicated when your heart decides who that will be, and you decline to challenge the choice.          

You're probably wondering what happened, why you should commiserate with someone who would do what I did, someone who continually discards "mistakes" simply as decisions that cause people to feel badly.  So maybe I should explain how it happened.  

Her name is Samantha.  


	2. Chapter 2

Living Forward – Chapter 2/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summaries...

*****

I met her six years ago as I was putting together a new team for the FBI's missing persons unit.  Well, filling a vacancy is more like it.  Danny had been with me for a year or two, Vivian a little longer, and we had too much work for the three of us to do.  The Bureau suggested that we take on another member, so I started interviewing applicants.  

It's amazing how few I received, actually.  None of the recruits think there's anything exciting in searching for missing people; all the action is in counter-terrorism or drug enforcement, where every day you're pulling your gun, racing into a bust, your heart pounding, adrenaline pumping.  If the army taught me one thing, though, it was that I didn't need to have my hands wrapped around the handle of a firearm every day to feel satisfied.  After the excitement wears off, you start looking for other ways to get it back, and I always worried how far I'd be willing to go for that rush.  

So I would watch the faces of the ones who did end up in my office, after I explained what we do and how we do it, and I could see the disappointment, the lack of comprehension, how they just didn't get it.  They would all just politely say they would consider joining, but I knew they wouldn't, and I'd have yet another name to cross off my list.  

Her name was fifteenth.    

It's not like my whole world turned upside down the moment she walked into my office.  That didn't happen until a long time after that day.  

I won't lie, I found her attractive, but that's just human nature.  I was immediately drawn to her lips, pouty and full, lips that somehow seemed at odds with the way her eyes appeared to smile at me.  Then when her mouth would smile, the sadness would travel to her eyes, a strange sort of give and take that never seemed to even itself out.  

Her hair was longer then, and she had it pulled back into a ponytail, shorter strands falling down behind her ears.  She had something to prove; I could tell by the way she spoke, the determination behind each word.  She probably had to work harder in the academy to throw off the 'pretty, stupid and useless' stereotype, and I could sense the chip it had left on her shoulder.  But I always imagined it went back farther than Quantico; I think Samantha Spade has been trying to prove something her whole life. Maybe it's just to show she's more than what she appears to be, or to keep what happened to her from happening to others... I'm not sure I'll ever know, or if she'll ever tell me.  

But as she sat across the desk from me, I asked her why she wanted to join the Missing Persons Unit.  She hardly blinked before replying, "I just don't think anyone deserves to be lost."  Deserves.  No one deserves most of what happens to them, I told her, but she was quick to respond, "Well that's where we come in, isn't it."  For a brief second, her mouth and her eyes both seemed to smile.    

She ended up working with me a lot in those first few months, mostly because I wanted to see how she did, how she interrogated and observed, how her brow wrinkled when she was putting together the pieces.  And the more I worked with her, the less I realized how much I was becoming drawn to her.  If our hands collided reaching for coffee, or I brushed against her while walking down the street, I can't say that it was always an accident.  

Sometimes I would catch myself staring at her when she was mulling over something at her desk, watching her mouth twist around and her eyes narrow, her hand coming up to absently finger a strand of hair.  I told myself there was nothing wrong with what I was doing; I hid my guilt behind the justification that I was simply keeping an eye on the newest member of my unit.  But more than once she caught me watching her, and more than once I chose not to look away immediately.  I should have known then that it was already becoming dangerous.        

She fit in nicely with the rest of the team.  The always-unflappable Vivian liked her attitude, the way she wouldn't put up with any bullshit from anyone.  Viv said Samantha added "a kind of wild spirit" to our group.  Danny had only been a Special Agent a short time, and you can still see the short fuse and enthusiasm that he had in spades back then.  Samantha handled her anger differently.  As each day passed, I could see the tension build in her shoulders, or hear it in the subtle inflection of a curt reply.  I would leave at night, hoping she had some way to release it all before it took its toll.   

One night, a few months after Sam had been with us, I stayed late, trying to finish a field report that was due early the next morning.  It hadn't been the best day; our missing toddler was found at the bottom of a riverbed in Albany after being abducted by her uncle, who had also gone missing.  When we raided his house to arrest him, he shot two police officers before turning the gun on himself.  We'd lost four people in one day.  

When I came out of my office to leave, I saw Samantha sitting in her chair, bent over her desk, her head in her hands.  I approached her slowly, not knowing if she was just sleeping or what.  But as I got closer, I could hear the faintest of sobs, and my heart just sank.  I wondered briefly if maybe the stress of the day had gotten to her, if this was her body's way of dealing with the strain, but then something just told me it was something else.  Samantha had been with the divers when they pulled that little girl ashore.  Everyone deserves to be found, right? 

Not always.    

I perched myself on her desk, and her head jerked up from her hands.  Her eyes were red, but she hadn't shed a lot of tears.  They seemed poised to burst at any moment, and I wanted to say something that would make it all go away, but words are often awkward and bulky, so I just let my eyes ask her if everything was okay.  

She took a deep breath and stood, bringing us to eye level, and then wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers.  Laughing lightly, she rolled her eyes.  "I'm okay."  

I hadn't moved.  "Are you?"        

This time, her eyes didn't move, didn't try to hide the pain, they just stared right back at mine.  There was only a brief second before the moment arrived where she just couldn't take it any more.  Biting her lip, she shook her head and looked at the floor.  

My stomach started to twist around, and now my eyes threatened to spill, just from watching her shoulders slump and her hand come up to cover her eyes.  I stood, moved next to her, and put my hand on her shoulder.  At first she resisted my touch, and for a moment I thought she was going to pull away and run for the door.  Then, like a tree finally giving in to the wind and snapping in half, she grabbed my lapels and fell against my chest, shaking, burying her head in my neck.       

My other hand came up around to the back of her neck, resting on the soft skin as she released her pain through full-body shudders and long, heavy sighs.  

Even after her breathing slowed, I just held her, and for that instant I forgot where I was supposed to be, just wanting to be right where I was, there in that moment with her.  

Eventually, she pulled away, slowly, raising her head to look at me.  I could tell she was slightly embarrassed, so my lips formed a slight smile, which was soon returned by her.  I don't know why, but the hand that had been on her shoulder came around to her cheek, lightly brushing the skin to wipe away the streaks left by her tears.  It was then that our smiles faded and I realized how close she was, how beautiful her eyes were, how warm she felt under my touch, how easy it would be just to lean down and press my lips to hers...

Something made me stop.  Maybe it was knowing Maria and the girls were waiting for me at home, innocently carrying out their day believing that I was doing anything but what I was doing right now.  Maybe it was the image of Maria in that restaurant, reading back my order with a smile, or remembering the day Hanna was born.  

Whatever the reason, I dropped my hand from Samantha's cheek and cleared my throat to break the tension.  She seemed slightly relieved as well, and when she turned back to her desk, a long, troubled exhale escaped from my mouth.  I hoped she didn't notice.  

When she turned back to me, I smiled again, forcing it a little more this time.  "I have to get going."  She nodded.  "You going to be okay?"  Again, a nod.  But I could tell she'd be alright, at least for now.  As for me, I wasn't entirely sure.          

As the days became weeks and the weeks became months, however, I became more and more sure.  When I'd catch a whiff of her perfume and find myself wanting to smell more, I was sure.  When our arms would inadvertently brush against each other as we stood in the conference room pondering a timeline, I was sure.  I was sure when I'd look at her, when I'd watch her walk away, when she'd say exactly what I was thinking, when she'd smile with her eyes, and when I'd go home at night and not mind that I could still smell her on my clothes.  

Like I said, I can't remember when it started to fall apart for Maria and me.  I was so busy with everything else I can't even remember that she had started to look at me differently, too.  But I never asked, never brought it up.  I just buried it.  It was just this vicious cycle of denial, and I don't think either one of us was up for the task of actually doing something to stop it.  

And so I would distract myself with work, staying later and later, getting more and more involved in each case so that I began to forget that I had problems waiting for me when I got home.  Maybe I was hoping in some selfish way that I could substitute my own grief with someone else's, grief that seemed more real and more definitive and supposedly more painful than just an allegedly perfect marriage that was slowly being ripped apart by apathy.  But instead, I just absorbed every bit of pain that I was exposed to, and it began to eat away at me as slowly as the indifference rotting away my relationship.    

Thinking about the past was exhausting, constantly wondering what we could have, should have, might have done to foresee and stop what happened, whatever that was.  And so in my attempts to turn off my thoughts of Maria I'd turned off everything, all emotion.  But I couldn't afford to let it just dissolve away – if not for me, then for my job.  Apathy at home breeds a marriage gone sour; at work it costs people their lives.  Something needed to happen before I became completely numb, before I turned into a giant ball of hatred that didn't care about anything at all.  

...tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

Living Forward – Chapter 3/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summary...

*****

I told myself it had been the case.  I used to say that finding them dead isn't as bad as never finding them at all, but I'm not so sure anymore.  There's something to be said for hope; as much as it can wear away at you, it keeps you going, gives your life purpose.  Chet would teach me that lesson several years later, but at the time, I just didn't understand.  

Sometimes a case just hits you and you don't really know why.  Maybe something about it reminds you of yourself, of a stage in your life that you've tried hard to forget, or it stirs up regrets that you thought you had buried long ago.  Sometimes it's just the tragedy that strikes you.  And sometimes, it's all of those things.  

We get literally hundreds of cases where young kids go missing, but what you discover most of the time is that they've been lost for a while, their souls floating aimlessly amidst the dirt and the grime and the stark reality of this city that disguises itself as something so promising when seen from afar.  They come to this town with only a few dollars and a heart full of hope, and what happens to them isn't too different than watching air seep slowly from a leaky balloon.  Once high and full of life, they almost don't realize what's happening... they start to droop with each ounce of lost air, sinking ever so slowly, fighting a losing battle to retain their shape until the very end, where they ultimately succumb to their withered, lifeless fates.  

Sometimes we find them when they still have some remnant of air left; the smiles of their gracious parents vanish quickly when they can hardly recognize what's happened to their own children.  And sometimes we find them when they're nothing but a deflated shell, a barely discernible vestige of their former life.  At those times, I wish we didn't have to call anyone.          

No one ever got a call about me; I was one of the fortunate ones.  After living in so many places that I couldn't even remember zip codes any more, I had finally found a home.  The city grew on me, became like a second family, a surging, throbbing lifeblood off of which I thrived.  As I've come to realize all too often over the years: I got lucky.    

What we'd found that night was a shell; a young man full of hope who had come to New York looking for a new life, and had left it at the 148th street subway stop, lying crumpled in a corner.  Everything in his pockets, which wasn't much anyway, had been taken before we got there.  We were lucky they left his face intact for identification.

Sam came into my office that night with an envelope of his personal effects found at the slum of an apartment where he'd lived.  A watch.  Some coins.  A simple gold chain.  A un-mailed letter addressed to our Federal Building.  

"It's an application," she said quietly.  "It's dated August of last year."  

"Jesus," I barely got out, and sat down on the edge of my desk to stabilize myself.  "How old?"

She waited a moment to respond, perhaps making sure I wasn't going to topple onto the floor.  For some reason I didn't care if she saw it happen.  "Twenty-two last month," she practically whispered.    

It was more than just what we'd found on the yellowed tile that day that stabbed at my heart.  It was more than the look on his mother's face when the sheet was pulled back.  I didn't want to admit it, but I knew; it was the way his mother had embraced his father afterward, how they'd held each other as they made their way back to their broken but intact home.  It was the first time I really doubted the strength of my marriage, doubted how much I was in love with my wife, even with the thought of one of my own children on that cold, steel table.  

I think it was that last thought that shoved me over the edge and broke the façade I had been attempting to keep up throughout the entire case.  I raised my hand and pressed my fingers to my eyes as a last effort to push back the tears.  Not now, not now, I remember thinking, and yet some part of me almost wanted her to see.    

"Jack, I..."  She didn't know what to say, and I didn't know what I wanted to hear.  Maybe nothing.  I just wanted to make it stop, purge the memories and the haunting flickers of a future I didn't want.  I remembered her skin, the warmth of her breath on my neck, and suddenly, that's all I wanted, all I wanted to think about.  That kid was dead, but I was alive; I had to stop feeling like I was dead.

She approached me cautiously, and I finally let my hand drop to my lap as I stood on my feet again.  With some small amount of shame I glanced up at her, my eyes swollen with moisture.  Her hand found mine, warm, soft, comforting.  Alive.    

I know the warnings went off in my head about where we were, but I remember telling myself that it was late, that no one would see.  Then I remember telling myself I didn't care even if they did.  

I wrapped my fingers around hers and squeezed gently.  My other hand went to her cheek, my thumb stroking her skin.  I felt her fingers tighten around mine as I moved closer... closer... and then I lost track of our fingers as I felt her breath on my lips.  

I had time to stop.  Even though the urge was overpowering, even though I could practically feel the softness of her lips against mine, I had time to pull back, to push her away, to say I didn't need this.  Need her.  

I didn't stop.

A single brushing of lips turned into another, and then another, the heat from our mouths filling the miniscule gap between us.  And then I felt her apply more pressure and I suddenly realized how much I needed it.  The longer I touched her, the longer I could keep away the pain and shut out the mess my life had become, blocking out Maria and the girls and all the ways I had failed them.       

Samantha suddenly pulled back, breathing heavily.  "Jack," she managed to whisper.  

The world came rushing back, even more painful than before.  "Shit, Sam... I'm sorry," I hurriedly mumbled, immediately chastising myself, but yet I couldn't ignore the need.  

She lowered her head.  _Oh, God, no, please don't walk away_.  I was being selfish that night, more than I had ever been in my whole life.  I just wanted to lose myself in her.    

But instead of walking away, she stopped and gazed up at me.  Her expression echoed my own.  "Should we go somewhere?" she asked, her voice low.   

I frantically sought out affirmation from those eyes that were inviting what I had been afraid to ask, and, finding it, I nodded, never looking away from her.  

I can't remember how we got to her apartment, or how long it took to get there.  I remember only flashes of some things, and great details of others.  Cream-colored walls.  Hardwood floors.  A couch... I can't remember the color.  I just remember walking through her door and having my emotions assault me.       

A raging river waiting for that tiny fissure in the dam, my need to silence everything else in my life just rushed forward all at once, and at that moment some part of me that had been lying dormant for too long was suddenly awakened.  

Like famished animals starving for the rawest kind of fulfillment, we practically attacked each other, two lost souls needing to find relief in the presence of another.  Maybe we had both been afraid that if we'd stopped too long to think it through, we would never reach the release we so desperately craved.  

We shed our clothes as quickly as possible, forming a trail of garments on the way to her bedroom.  Our mouths were unyielding, nipping and biting, tongues rough and insistent.  We barely made it to her bed, and we fell against the sheets, bodies entangled, fingers digging into flesh, mouths separating only to release gasps and moans.    
  


She breathed my name into my ear, and her fingers gripped my hair as my hands each staked a claim on her body; one on the soft skin of her shoulder, the other deep in her blonde tresses.  Lungs straining from exertion, I tried to utter her name but it just came out as an inarticulate huff, so I just buried my head in her neck and surrendered to my body's demand for release.       

  
In a flash of heat and light and need and pain, I let it all go, purging my system the only way I knew how.  I gripped her body, keeping her close as she tightened around me before finally collapsing against the pillows.  

As my vision slowly returned to normal, I felt her next to me, her hair falling against my skin, both damp with perspiration.  I thought I might have heard her voice, but I was suddenly overpowered by the need for sleep, and the darkness came before I had the chance to reply.   

...tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

Living Forward – Chapter 4/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summary...

*****

The streetlight streaming in from her window woke me a few hours later, and I was only disoriented for a moment before it all came back to me, washing over my conscience as it replayed itself in my head.  I swallowed hard and looked beside me, my heart sinking.  

She was still asleep, facing me, her hair splayed out over the pillow and over her cheeks, wild yet so naturally innocent.  For a while I just watched her sleep, observed how her eyelids fluttered, how her mouth opened slightly before closing again.  I wanted to reach over and touch her but I was afraid of what I'd have to say if she woke up.  

I'm sorry, Sam.  I'm sorry for being selfish, for dragging you into my life in this way, for making you the other woman, for using you, for making you do this, for automatically making your life a thousand times more complicated.  I'm sorry for everything.  

It was as if all the air in the room was suddenly sucked out, and I felt like I was gasping for even the tiniest breath.  I sat up, hand on my chest, mouth wide open, drawing in as much air as I could.  Eventually, I just shut my eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to contain the voice inside my head that wanted to scream as loud as possible.  I had to get out of there before I started hyperventilating so loudly that she woke up and I'd have to—

"Hey..."   

_Oh, no.  Nonononononono... please._  But it was too late.

"Jesus, Jack, what's wrong?"  She sat up next to me, her hand on my back.  Her hand... so warm... so very warm and... "Are you alright, you're shak—"

She stopped talking when I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and I hated myself as I did so.  "This was stupid," I said quietly, my back to her.    

The words hit me as hard as I know they must have hit her, like landing smack on your back on the pavement, the air leaving your body in one terrifying instant.        

Her hand fell from my back.  

_Shit._

I closed my eyes.  "I'm sorry, Sam, I just have to g—"

"Stop."  I looked back at her and she stared me down, waving me off with a flick of her wrist.  "Just..." She ran her hand over her mouth before she gestured with it again.  "Just go."  

I'd never felt such heavy silence as when I gathered my clothes from around her place, avoiding her eyes, wanting to explain, needing to touch her again but being too afraid for too many reasons to count.  She didn't move from her sitting position on the bed, even when I reentered her room, dressed, my tie hanging loosely from my collar, my shirt half-tucked into my pants.  I was going to just walk out, but I thought I should at least tell her I was leaving.   

A long, stiff moment passed in the five feet between us.  I opened my mouth to say something but there wasn't anything to say.  Instead, I just stood there in her doorway, my eyes unable to stop themselves from seeking out hers.  When I still hadn't moved, she looked up at me, her eyes full of pain and hurt and confusion, all of which I had caused.  I tried to tell her with my eyes that I was sorry, but she just looked away, and so I turned and walked out the door.  

I managed to slip into my apartment quietly enough, and had a fitful three hours of sleep on the sofa before waking again.  I saw the questions in Maria's eyes when she came downstairs and saw me folding the blanket back onto the couch, but I didn't offer an excuse, and she never asked.  Instead, I walked past her to the bedroom, changed, and then silently left for the office.  

Work became nearly unbearable for the days following that night.  To save us both the grief of having to face the situation head-on, I continually assigned her to work with Vivian or Danny, anyone but me.  I know they noticed, but I couldn't help it.  As much as I wanted to be near her, to touch her, to explain what had really happened that night, I couldn't bear the thought that I'd look into her eyes and see no hope for forgiveness.    

Samantha was remarkably resilient considering how I treated her at the office.  While I just avoided going with her anywhere, she still had protocol to follow – every lead still had to pass through me, so we did have to speak to one another.  A few times when I leaned over her at the computer, I would catch a trace of her shampoo, or I'd be distracted by mentally tracing a line along her jaw, around to her chin and then up to her mouth.  If she noticed, she didn't say anything, though a couple of times I made the mistake of catching her glance with my own, and the conversation would come to a screeching halt until one of us tore our eyes away.

It was inevitable that we would eventually have to work together, and one night we both had to stay late to sort through a case report.  Vivian had acted as a buffer for a while, but after the fourth page from her husband, I sent her home.  

After I walked Vivian to the elevator, I returned to the conference table to find Sam leaning over it slightly, her back to me.  I approached her carefully and lightly placed a hand beneath her shoulder blades.  She stiffened immediately, but didn't pull away.  I stepped closer, pressing against her, and turned to see what she was looking at on the table so it would at least seem somewhat professional if anyone were to walk by.  

"I didn't mean what I said," I whispered after a long pause, my hand still on her back as if to keep her from running away.  "I'm sorry."  

She made a slight chortling sound before turning her head toward me.  "I'm sorry, too," she said acerbically, and turned right back to her paperwork, leaning forward onto her hands to get a closer view.  

I sighed heavily and brought my hand back to my pocket.  That was a long night.  

Eventually, we finished the report, and I cornered her at her desk as she was putting on her coat.  I think it was the first time we'd been face to face since that night and the proximity was unnerving, though not entirely unpleasant.  

"Let me drive you home."  

She pulled the bottom of her hair from under her coat's collar and reached for her purse.  "I'll catch a cab."  

"At this hour?  You'll never find—"

"Then I'll walk."  This time she looked right at me, and I swallowed, hard.  

"I'm driving you home," I said, my voice low.  

After another moment of silence, she finally conceded, her lips still unwilling to show me anything but a straight, pursed line of anger.  

The car ride was silent until I parked in front of her building.  When she tried to get out I locked the door.  

"I want to talk to you."  I found myself getting angry with her for not letting me explain.  When I looked over at her she was staring at me.  

"So talk."  

I opened my mouth but no words came out.  What does one say to one's mistress after your first night together ends in pain instead of staying in the realm of pleasure?  I opened my mouth again, hoping that somehow the words would just form themselves on my tongue and be pushed out by the air my lungs were desperately trying to capture.  

"What do you want, Jack?"  

_Wait... _

"What do you want?" she repeated.  "What do you want ... from me?"  

I was still incapable of speech.  

She turned in her seat to face me.  I think I would have felt safer if she had drawn her gun.  

"You want some... diversion from your wife?  Is that what you want?"  

I swallowed.  

She nodded, mostly to herself.  "Well, when you figure it out, you let me know.  I'll see you on Monday."   

She reached for the door again but I hadn't unlocked it, and I wasn't going to.  She sighed loudly.  

Somehow, my voice returned.

"That night..."  The words were there, I just had to let them go.  I couldn't lie to both women in my life, and something about this one made me want to be honest, not just with her, but myself.  "That night was a diversion."  

Her eyes closed and she bit her lip, nodding her head slightly.  

"I could live the rest of my life telling myself that, but ... it wouldn't be the truth... "  I trailed off, and she turned to look at me.  

"Then what was it?" she asked so quietly I could barely hear.  

A beat passed before I slowly reached over and ran my hands through some of her hair that had fallen out of place.  Instead of tucking it back right away, I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, memorizing the texture, the color, the way it rolled against the calloused pads of my skin.    

When I eventually placed it back behind her ear, I let my fingers trail down through a larger lock of hair until my hand finally landed on her cheek.  Moving down to her chin, my thumb came up to brush over her lips, and I watched her carefully as I did so.  Her eyes closed and her mouth opened just enough for me to feel her breath on the tip of my finger.    

After a moment, she took my hand in hers and held it against her skin, keeping it there as she finally opened her eyes.  In the darkness of the car, they glistened with moisture and some wondrous, unspoken level of compassion that made my heart want to burst.    

We made love in her apartment that night, the frenzy having been replaced by an indescribable tenderness.  Our mouths caressed, our hands embraced, our symphony of cries and gasps now sparked by a gentle, unhurried kind of pleasure, not a desperate, frantic need.  

And when the early morning sun streaked the sky with pink and orange pastel, I stroked her hair until we both agreed it was time to tackle the outside world again.  

...tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

Living Forward – Chapter 5/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summary...

*****

Limbo.  That was how I referred to the status of my marriage.  I would say I was trying to work it out, and I would use the word I felt best described our situation: limbo.  

Limbo.  

Right.  

Is that what they call long, empty silences, quiet nights alone, raised voices followed quickly by dial tones?    

Maria and I separated on September 15th, 2002, ten years, three months and eight days after we were married.  I know it upset the girls, but so did the constant bickering, the yelling, the gelid stares that should never pass between two people who are supposed to love, honor and cherish one another.  Jesus, what the hell had happened to us?  How had I let it get this far?  There I was, packing up my clothes and the razor that's supposed to hang in the shower next to hers, all the while just trying to figure out when my life had suddenly become this raging ball of crap.  

You should have seen Hanna's face when I walked out the door with my bags; to not be able to explain what was going on just broke my heart, and my only hope was that she would someday be able to forgive me.    

My stark, empty apartment offered little condolence, except that it was closer to the Federal Building than where my wife lived with our two daughters... but not me.  "How long will you be staying?" the owner wanted to know.  I wish I'd had some kind of answer.  

What exactly do you do when you're separated?  You trade shifts taking care of your children, realizing after you give them back to your wife just how quiet your new home is without their little stories and adventures.  Kate gave me a drawing and I hung it on my refrigerator, but it didn't really make up for her not being there.  You find yourself wondering if they'll just stop smiling at you one day, if they'll start to blame you like their mother does.  You wonder if you were wrong, and there's a chance they'll eventually stop loving you like they did the day they were born.  

What else?  You try as hard as possible not to look your supposed life partner in the eye because you can't bear the thought that all it will do is remind you of the past.  And somewhere along the way, your mind wanders over the distinct possibility that you're probably headed for a divorce.  Courtrooms.  Papers.   Lawyers.  Maria is a lawyer.  I had hoped that maybe she'd just draw up the papers and I could sign them and then we could finally look at each other without trying to place blame on what was happening.  Divorce would provide closure... but I wasn't supposed to want closure; I was supposed to want a family.  

I started to wonder if anyone at work would notice or hear through the grapevine; I did work with three other Federal Investigators, after all.  What would Samantha say about this?  I couldn't tell her right away, I just had to deal with it myself first.  It slipped out one night talking to Vivian; I just needed to tell someone for some weird reason, and I figured I'd done enough lying with Maria already.  Vivian nodded her head and said she was sorry.  I didn't tell her about Samantha and me, but I wouldn't be surprised if she had put the pieces together.    

At night I'd absently flip through the channels, fooling myself into thinking that if I were to go and beg to live back in my own home, things would somehow just go back to the way they were before all this happened.  Maria would be that smiling waitress and I'd be the eager G-man and we'd try to laugh off our problems like we used to do back then.  

Did I miss her?  I don't know.  I probably should have, but I really don't know; it was somewhat of a relief to be away from her.  I guess what I really missed was the idea of her.  I missed how we used to be, how she used to make me feel, how we used to talk about the dreams we had together.  I missed being in love with her... but that's hardly the kind of feeling one just clicks back on like a light switch.        

Did she miss me?  I don't know that, either.  Maybe it was easier for her this way, easier for the girls.  Maybe my family was better off without me.  

It'd be easy for me to say I fell back into Samantha's arms because I was seeking a refuge, a distraction... and it'd be easy to say I went to her in the first place because I wanted something exciting and fresh, something younger and newer than my wife.  It'd be easy to say that, but it'd also be wrong. 

I suppose I was enthralled by her energy, her vitality, the softness of her skin... but I'd hate anyone to think that I'd risk so much for just some carnal escapade.  Worse than that, simplifying our situation makes Samantha into something so much less than she really is, and that seems like a bigger crime than anything I have ever done.  

...tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Living Forward – Chapter 6/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summary...

*****

I have a tattoo on my left shoulder.  A couple of guys from the 82nd convinced me to get it one night, and we'd had too much alcohol in our systems to tell us any better.  I don't really show it off, and it was kind of impulsive at the time, but I don't regret it.  

Samantha once asked me about it, running her finger lightly over my skin.  Maria always hated my tattoo.  

Most relationships are founded on some form of trust, on love, on an unseen but undeniable connection.  A lifelong friendship, for instance, or the bond between siblings; they're supposed to be governed by those things.  The same goes for a marriage.  

I doubt an affair should be filed under that same category, since the trust is discarded in favor of deceit, but when the love and the undeniable connection vanish from a marriage, sometimes the voids are filled unexpectedly, and this new product then qualifies as a relationship.  An affair is not a replacement for a marriage, just as a mistress is not a substitute for a wife; the feelings aren't replaced so much as recreated in another form, most often with more potency than before and an intensity that defies comprehension.  

But like my tattoo, I have no regrets.  I may have slept with Samantha on impulse that first night, giving in to a need and craving a level of comfort that only she could provide, but something else happened, and kept happening, long after that first night.  I don't know what it was.  A deep, unexplainable adoration, a warmth that seemed to encompass every smile she gave me from her desk, or from inches away as she sleepily laid her head on a pillow.   

Living forward, I merely told myself that she made me happy, she made me feel, she rekindled something deep inside of me that had been asleep for a long while.  Looking backward, however, I think I can pinpoint that as the moment I fell in love with her.  

But a relationship founded on deceit, though it may have the other qualifiers on its side, is fated from the very start.  You just can never see that until it's pretty much over.     

I can't remember the exact moment I started to pull away from her.  It was gradual, probably because I knew if I suddenly deprived myself of her, I would go into some kind of shock from the withdrawal.  It's not like I was getting back together with Maria; I just knew I had to stop.  What we were doing was dangerous for both of us; it could ruin her career, and I didn't want anyone to think she was sleeping with me to climb some Bureau ladder.  But I was also always afraid my feelings would show through if I ever had to choose between her life and following protocol.  

It's strange... when my family was threatened by Katan, all I could think about was procedure – safe houses, FBI protection, interrogating my own wife about her eyewitness account – I was acting on instinct as an Agent and a father.  In Farrell's office, I was acting on instinct as something entirely different.  I was a man driven by adrenaline.  Anger.  Revenge.  

Looking back, I gave myself away running in there like that, and maybe it was the timing with the Spaulding trial, but I just didn't care what he thought of me, only that he knew he wouldn't get away with what he was doing.  It scared me inside, though, that Samantha could still trigger such a reaction in me.  It scared me that after all that had happened with Katan and my family, I was still in love with her.

She was waiting for me outside the courthouse on that day I'll never forget.  It had been a day of ugly but necessary truths, and even as I'd smiled at her, and she'd smiled at me, something in my gut had told me there would be more to come.  

We'd sat on that bench with burdened hearts, and had left with broken ones.  When I'd held her to me, my chest wrenching in pain from the look in her eyes, I'd wondered why the truth had always been against me and why it had chosen that day to overtake everything in my life.  The truth had saved a colleague's trust, but had set a killer free.  It had disguised itself as closure for Samantha, but I could feel in the way she leaned against me that it had brought much more pain that I had ever intended.  The truth hadn't improved my life; it hadn't set me free.  It had made me one hell of a miserable bastard.    

...tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Living Forward – Chapter 7/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summary...

*****

_"Somebody got shot."  _

_"Who?"_

_"Samantha."_

Somehow, I had expected someone to get hurt; years in the FBI had taught me to anticipate the worst-case scenario before it happened, so it might be prevented.  And yet, I had imagined anything but 'Samantha' to be the name that emerged from Barry's mouth.  I felt horrible wishing an injury on someone else, but of all the names on that whiteboard, why did the bullet had to find hers?  

I had just said goodbye not one week before, I had finally said the words to let her go, and she was suddenly being thrown back into my heart under the worst of circumstances.  

Her voice on the phone had been like a tiny breath of air in the room where I stood chocking on anxiety and endless levels of guilt, trying to swallow past the fear that I would never see her alive again.  

Van Doran was right; I couldn't keep my objectivity.  I knew that from the moment Samantha walked away from me into that bookstore, but I had to be the one on that phone.  I had to hear her, had to keep that tiny connection, even if it was just over a thin, frail telephone line.  But after hearing those dreaded words from Barry, I was so enraged and so frightened, I could barely think straight.  I knew I had to get her out of there, and it didn't matter to me how.  I couldn't lose her twice in one week.

Oh, how pale she had looked on the floor; I shuddered at the thought of how much longer she would have stayed alive in there.  Her skin was so cold, her eyes so afraid, it ripped at my heart to have to leave her alone on that bench and walk away from her again.  

Taking Samantha out of that bookstore was merely a physical relocation, however; she left something deep inside of me when I walked back in there without her, and I felt it stabbing at me, a silent but agonizing pain that wouldn't let me forget the feel of her hand on my cheek and the look in her eyes when I had promised I would return.  

Barry talked about his wife.  How much he loved her.  Could I doubt his words after what had happened today?  What would I have done if Maria had died that day?  I wonder what figure they would have come up with for me... would I have taken my own advice and been able to move on?  What about Samantha?  What would she be worth?  I imagined having to be the one to tell her family how she had died.  

_Mrs. Spade, I'm very sorry for your loss.  I know it's my fault, but if it's any consolation, I loved her, too.  _

Barry talked about the last time he saw his wife.  I had to think so hard to remember the last time I saw Maria.  It's not that it was so long ago I couldn't remember, it's that seeing her was no longer something I remembered automatically, or wanted to remember.  How could I have let it get that far, especially when men like Barry were willing to take hostages in order to prove their love?

_"You were willing to trade your life for her life?"  _

_"In that moment, yes I was."_

I would die for Maria.  I would die for my kids in a heartbeat.  And in any moment, I would give my life up for Samantha's.  It's what you do; it's instinctual.  In any given moment, I know I would die for any of the women in my life; the ones I love, have loved, and am in love with.  

But that's petty.  It's petty and selfish to be in love with someone other than the mother of my children, even though I'm not even sure she's still in love with me.    

Maybe that's the second chance Barry gave me when he decided not to pull that trigger.  

It's a remarkable experience, believing you're about to die.  There's the surge of adrenaline, of course, but also a strange calming sensation, a moment of clarity, I suppose, as if suddenly, the answers to all of life's mysteries are abundantly clear, and there is nothing to fear about where you're going or what will happen to you.  

There's also a strange occurrence in your brain as it tries to sort out the sudden flood of impulses carried there by the rapid pumping of your heart.  Like a desperate machine attempting a last-minute backup, the brain rapidly scans through its vast libraries of memory, and in doing so, passes over some things you haven't thought about since they happened.  It's like living your life all over again at lightning speed.  

A fight at school.

My father's 1967 Thunderbird.

A moving truck in our driveway.

My broken, camouflaged leg, bent awkwardly beneath my body. 

Maria and Kate at the swimming pool.

Hanna on Christmas.  

Samantha's blood.    

The memories started to come so fast I could barely make them out.  Just flashes here and there of people, places.  A tree.  A dog.  Quantico.  Maria.  My mother.  The Twin Towers.  A subway car.  

And then, the cold steel was gone.  Barry took the barrel from my skin and walked away, and I struggled to somehow compose myself, my brain still inundated with the chaos of sorting out old memories.

As the liquid coursing through my body slowed to a relative crawl, so did the images.  

I saw my wedding.  

I saw my daughters being born.  

I saw the face of the first person I'd ever found on a case.  

And I saw Samantha. 

Not dead.  Not shot or bleeding.  I saw her waiting outside my office; I saw her walk over to me.  I saw her hand extend out to mine.  

"Samantha Spade."

Her hand was warm.

"Jack Malone.  Have a seat."  

"Well, that's a first."  

"What's that?"  

"You didn't make fun of my name."  

"It's a great name."  

I saw the smile that spread across her mouth... and then I saw her lying there on the floor, her leg drenched in blood, her eyes full of terror.  

I opened my eyes, and the memories finally stopped.

I inhaled through my nose and then let it out, gasping quietly for my next breath.      

_"So, Jack what do you think?  Do you get a second chance?"_

_"You gonna give me one?"_

Hanna's hair was soft against my skin as I leaned in for a kiss.  It'd been so long since I'd seen them sleep, and for a brief moment, the last twelve hours ceased to exist; it was just me and my two beautiful daughters in a safe, perfect bubble.  

The floor creaked slightly as I made my way to the other bedroom.  She still slept with the door shut.  Old habits die hard.  

Part of me wanted to lie down next to her, to stroke her hair and wish for someone to take away all the pain I had ever caused her.  Instead, I sat in the chair we'd found at an antique store in White Plains years ago.  It was the kind of chair you sat in and it felt like it had been made just for you.  That's how I used to feel about Maria.  

All the fights, all the words, all the balled fists and empty stares, all the times I hadn't been there for her, all the ways I couldn't love Maria as much as Barry had loved Nicole, and then that big, gaping hole in the skyline where something so grand had once stood – it all came rushing over me, swirling violently around in my head until it overwhelmed me and I had to close my eyes to keep from passing out.   

Barry was right; I couldn't figure out how to love my wife.  And when I couldn't sit in that chair and not think about Samantha, I knew that I would have to live with what that meant.  

I watched Samantha sleep from a less-than-comfortable chair next to her bed.  The color had returned to her lips and cheeks, fatigue only slightly latent beneath her otherwise peaceful features.  In my haze of exhaustion, I couldn't bring myself to do much of anything but stare at her eyelids, begging them to open.  

I was so absorbed by my wish that I didn't even notice that she had woken up until she spoke.  But it was so faint, I had to shift forward, leaning onto the bed.  Along the way, she found my hand, and I reciprocated the light squeeze she gave me.  I shouldn't have touched her.  I shouldn't have watched her sleep.  I shouldn't have loved her, either.    

I found her eyes again and whispered that I couldn't hear her.  She swallowed and licked her lips, gathering her strength.  I leaned in closer to hear.

"You're late..." 

My tears had started long before she'd said it, even though she was alive, even though she had woken up, even though she had ended her quiet declaration with a signature smirk.  Her eyes began to spill over as well, and I gripped her hand between both of mine and brought it to my lips.  

Still holding her hand, I leaned forward again to rest my head on the bed next to hers, and then slowly began to release everything that had happened that day through the water flowing from my eyes.    

*****

I fell in love with Sam.  I still love her now. 

I'm supposed to love Maria, but I love Samantha.  Who will be a part of my second chance?

Maybe I am just treading water, but I don't know what to do.  

A sound from behind suddenly startles me, and for the first time since I sat down, I shift on the cooling grass, only to see a squirrel scurry by, a large acorn shoved into its mouth.  

I glance to the sky and note how it seems to be growing darker with each passing second.  It's only fitting that it rain now; it seems appropriately symbolic.  But perhaps it's also my cue that I should be going.  I've bothered you long enough, I suppose.  

Rising to one knee, I lean over and press my hand to the cool stone, my fingers trailing over the familiar name.  I suppose it's at least one thing that you and I had in common.

Anyway, thanks for listening.  I'll tell mom that I stopped by to see you.

I allow my fingers to linger on the rough granite for one last moment, and then I walk away.  

(fin.)


End file.
